Dean Winchester's Memory
by Veterization
Summary: Dean Winchester has always had a bad memory. But waking up to not know who the human enclosed in his bed sheets is after a long night of intoxication would be an all time low for his recognition skills. Sam/Dean oneshot.


_Disclaimer:_ I do not own Supernatural.

The validity and stamina of Dean Winchester's memory was never one that could be considered laudatory.

He likes to believe it's a hereditary trait, which is why his father finds the necessity to document all of his knowledge on creatures in a well-maintained journal instead of storing it in his brain. His brother is apparently the only exception to this genetic pattern, and Dean is convinced this is why Sam gets arithmetic equations embedded into his brain so swiftly as compared to Dean, who has never done all too exceptionally in school. It's comforting to convince himself that it's all family genes instead of his own inability to understand concepts.

Dean is very much aware of his crisis involving recalling things, from slight, small tasks his father asked him to fulfill, like buying more milk, to significant issues like remembering to salt the windows in Sam's bedroom. It's come to be quite a problem when a girl he frequently flirts with by his locker at school comes up to him to inquire if he's free for the movies on the weekend and he mumbles out the wrong name when he politely declines because he has to babysit his little brother. It's lost him more dates and lessened his reputable charm considerably, and much to Dean's dismay, he can't train himself to remember girls' names, his mind always labeling them with slightly crude titles of _great tits_ or _lips good for sucking_.

His poor memory has gotten him in trouble with the majority of the female population because of his inability to remember a name to a face or even to a conversation, his father because being forgetful isn't a trait a hunter can afford, and teachers because of his habit of failing to recall assignments. It seems almost inevitable that it won't be long before his lack of good recognition will affect his brother as well.

And although Dean can admit that his capability of a providing proper reminiscence is worse than poor, he never would have assumed that his memory was quite so damaged that he would have trouble remembering a whole evening of events.

It's well past noon when Dean finally cracks an eyelid open. There's a sandy, rough layer that couldn't possibly be skin separating his eyelids from his pupils, and Dean instantly goes to rub at them with a tiny groan of dissatisfaction.

Oh, the throb.

He's met with a heavy, insistent pounding on his skull when he finally manages to pry open his eyes, grateful for the blinds shielding away most of the morning sunlight from view. The room is dim and covered in soothing shadows, but it's still bright enough to make Dean's tortured brain hurt. It's as if his mind is a living construction site, complete with bulldozers and clouding dust and dusty debris and noisy machines intent on making a ruckus.

Dean doesn't remember exactly how he ended up in his current state, hungover and boneless, eyes sticky and lips chapped as he rubs them together. All he can surmise is that there was a heavy amount of alcohol.

Technically, John doesn't allow Dean to leave the premises, even though Sam is a month shy of seventeen and is much more responsible than Dean ever was, not exactly requiring the supervision of a babysitter anymore. Still, Dean and Sam have better bonds with each other than either of them possess with their father, so it isn't as if either of them would run spilling to John about how the other left the hotel after curfew and left them to their lonesome.

As another poignant sting shoots through Dean's shriveled leftover of a brain, like a tomato sitting out in the scorching sun on a July afternoon for too long, he vaguely finds himself praying that in the future, Sam will have enough sense to enforce John's rules and make Dean stay inside their sawdust hotel no matter how little there is to do or how gritty the channels are. He's not exactly a lightweight, but no matter how much of a tolerance his liver works up against the strongest of vodkas, hangovers seem to be just as genetic as his poor memory. Dean finds it a miracle that he even managed to find his way back home in one piece and settled safely in his bed considering how intoxicated he had become, if the intensity of his hangover is any clue.

He slings his knee over the side of the mattress, six more seconds of enjoying the softness of his sheets away from climbing out of bed and trying to brush away the numbness of his mouth and stench of sour sleep to make himself more presentable, when he spies a figure enclosed in the sheets next to him.

Dean looks over, alert with the reflexes of a hunter, even with bloodshot eyes and a throbbing head. He sees a lump the unmistakable shape of a human, stirring slightly in the midst of faint morning sleep, covers tucked up past her ears.

Dean promptly takes this as his cue to freak out.

Bringing a girl _home_? How did Sam even allow him to get away with that? There's no way Sam would condone Dean, clearly in a state of deep inebriation, to come home with a girl draped over his arm and let him drag her to his bedroom, especially with the ever-looming threat of John coming home early resting on his shoulders. Unless Sam wanted Dean to suffer through the punishment of morning after panic and force the girl he can't even remember taking home out the window just so John wouldn't learn of his occasional nighttime outings, Dean can't think of a reason as to why Sam would be all right with his brother bringing home a one night stand.

Rubbing at his temples, Dean sits on the corner of his bed, looking everywhere but the girl tucked under his sheets. Technically, if he was a better person, he would tug on her shoulder and gently wake her up and offer her a cup of coffee and maybe then, venture to ask her if she remembers what happened last night. Dean still has a few tendrils of hope that believe that perhaps nothing but a few friendly chats and a few too many drinks happened last night, but the fact that Dean soon realizes that he's clad in nothing but his smile as he shifts his thighs prove him wrong. He lets out another exasperated groan, vows to never drink again, and fumbles for his phone on his nightstand before he goes straight for the door and to the kitchen of their grimy motel.

He wonders where Sam even _is_. Normally he'd be enjoying a bowl of cereal quietly at the kitchen counter or flicking through the channels through a few intermittent morning yawns or rifling through his schoolwork. He wonders if Sam is still asleep, but when his eyes fall upon the soft blinking numbers _12:52_ on the clock he thinks perhaps not. Sam's a morning person, after all.

It looks for Sam's name in his phone, practically dancing on the balls of his feet while he waits for the rings to stop and his brother's voice to fall through the receiver. If John comes home to find Sam missing after a drunken night of fun and a naked girl in Dean's bed, World War III is definitely ineluctable. Dean curses under his breath while he waits for Sam to pick up.

"'Lo?"

"Sam!" Dean hisses, instantly cradling his forehead in his palm with his free hand. His voice sounds scratchy, like he's just spent hours in dental surgery, "Sam, where the hell are you?"

"Dean, calm down," Sam's voice is sleepy, groggy, like someone just pulled him from the arms of slumber. Dean frowns a little.

"Dude, I did something really stupid."

"_Really_ stupid?"

"Uh, yeah. Epically stupid. Like, it needs to have its own Discovery Channel documentary stupid." Dean admits.

Sam remains silent for a few torturous seconds before he helpfully offers, "I can help bury the body?"

"Dude, there's a girl in my bed," Dean confesses, whispering as though perhaps his voice might carry through the door and wake up the anonymous Mystery Woman sleeping on the other side of his bed.

"Okay."

"No, it's not okay! I have no idea how she got there!"

"She slept there."

Dean growls impatiently. Even after an abrupt awakening, Sam still has the mind to use sardonic logic. He raps his knuckles against the kitchen counter and prays for the heavy thumping in his mind to lessen a little.

"C'mon, man. _I don't know how she got there._"

"Well, you were drunk last night. That should explain most of it. That, and your horrible memory." Sam reasons.

Dean rifles through a few vacant cupboards in a fruitless search for painkillers.

"Yeah, but I wouldn't bring a girl home, Sam. I was drunk, but I couldn't have been drunk enough to be that _stupid_ too."

There's a slight, pregnant pause on the other end. The sound of rustling sheets can be heard, and before Dean can marvel at the fact that Sam slept in past midday, his brother speaks again.

"You don't remember anything?"

"No!" Dean cries, and gives up his search for pills to soothe his headache. He looks down at his naked body, nothing but skin and a few bite marks bruising into purple splotches and modifies his answer, "Well... I think I got laid."

"You think?"

"I'm naked! And," Dean prods curiously at some of the darker marks, grimacing a little when they prove to still be quite sore. He rubs over a few of the less sensitive ones. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he's reminded that he shouldn't really be having this conversation with his brother, playing twenty questions about what happened last night and who he slept with and what type of sex they had. Dean winces, and hopes they don't soon swerve into talking about what position Dean was most likely in, too.

"Yeah?"

"...I've got _marks_, man. Still hurt like a bitch."

A choked chuckle, as though Sam has uselessly attempted to stifle it, makes it way through the phone. He sounds much too amused by the whole situation for Dean's liking. He growls, and grips the phone more firmly in his fingers.

"Dude! This ain't fuckin' funny!"

"I know, all right? It's just, why don't you just talk to her?"

"Talk to her?"

"Yeah. Like, with words and stuff." Sam supplies, and Dean considers hanging up. Then he's reminded of his very much problem and his very much nakedness, and dismisses the idea.

"About what?"

"Whatever happened. Maybe she wasn't quite as drunk as you, you know. And has a better memory."

"Shut up," Dean mutters, and heads for the coffee machine, mouth still itchy in the depths of his throat. His esophagus feels grainy and overused, and Dean swallows on a dry mouth as he hopes that it wasn't from screaming or moaning.

"...Dean?"

"What?"

"You do realize that she's probably thinking exactly what you are, right? You left her to wake up alone in a hotel she doesn't even recognize."

"Exactly!" Dean cries, a little indignantly, and furls up an old coffee filter in his palm, "Who the hell follows someone home to a _motel_? I'm starting to think she's a slut."

"I'm starting to think _you're_ a slut."

Dean's hungover mind isn't nearly functioning at a speed fast enough to come up with a witty remark, and he promptly shuts his mouth and starts the coffee machine.

"What do I ask her?"

"Hi, what's your name?" Sam ventures, and snorts a little. Dean senses the amusement, and still isn't very mutually amused by it.

"Shit, I don't even know her name," Dean rakes a hand through his hair, scruffy from sleep, "Why can't _you_ do it? You saw us come home, right? And where the hell _are_ you?"

"Yeah, I saw you." Sam sounds more entertained by the second. Dean is starting to wonder who exactly he brought home that has Sam snickering. Possibilities of an elderly woman with her breasts sagging in her skirt, a foreign Italian lady who couldn't speak a word of English, or an underage girl with pimples and knobby knees flit through his mind. He whimpers.

"Yeah? And? Do you know her?"

"Yeah. He's a pretty nice guy."

"Why didn't you – wait, a he?" Dean stops, and resists the urge to stare at his receiver in incredulity. He wants to believe that he misheard Sam. That Sam is suffering from just-woken-up illogical thoughts. That he's dreaming through a horribly vivid nightmare where he had a one night stand he can't recall that appears to also be outing his homosexuality in a very abrupt and unconventional manner.

Dean takes a moment just to think about it. He wonders if this, too, is a genetic thing. Sam's always been an interesting boy, a little bit too interested in paper mache and has a whole bunch of inner turmoil that as far as Dean is concerned, is for women during their time of the month. If anything, Sam either makes him gay by association, or John passed on more traits that he's been unaware of until now. Dean can at least admit that if the human tucked into bed in his room right now is a man, there will be some severe denial occurring for the next few weeks. Dean is so far in the closet that he's finding Christmas presents.

"Uh, yeah, a he. Is that hard to believe?"

Dean deflates a little as he fumbles for his coffee cup. Sam is now _doubting_ his heterosexuality? When he thinks about it rationally, he did just have sex with a man, no boobs and muscles and afternoon stubble and everything, which definitely puts a good dent in his straight status, but still. Sam is acting like they need to throw him a Coming Out of the Closet celebration with balloons and a cake followed by gay porn screenings.

Well. Perhaps Sam isn't taking it _that_ far.

"Yes, it is. _Yes_," Dean hears a tiny, barely audible snort on the other line and he frowns, feeling the need to add a, "I was drunk," as extra reasoning.

Sam's sigh is heavy through the phone, "Was it just a hook-up?"

"Sam, stop being a girl about this," Dean says through a mouthful of coffee. It's too hot and doesn't have enough sugar, but the burn is a pleasant sensation on his roughened throat, "I don't even know the girl's – dammit, _guy's_ – name. We're not going to have a commitment ceremony in Thailand and adopt Ugandan babies."

"I told you, Dean, he's a nice guy. Just talk to him."

"Because then we might fall in looooove, Sammy?"

The sharp aura of indignation stains the air through the silence. Then, "You're panicking. Drink your coffee and talk to him already."

"Dude, you aren't listening to me. What am I saying after I ask him for his name? 'Dude, what a great fuck? Shame I don't remember it, now drink some caffeine and get your ass out of my bed?' This is so goddamn awkward!"

"Just because it's a guy doesn't make the situation any different than if it were a girl." Sam says, and there's a hint of annoyance at Dean's unrelenting homophobia plaguing the edge of his voice.

Dean's tone raises a slight octave, and he cups the phone closer to his ear, "What if he's _big_? Like the size of a fuckin' skyscraper and hungover and _pissed off_–"

"Dean. He isn't. Just wake him up," Sam pauses, and then, as an afterthought, adds, "He likes his coffee sweet."

Dean nods dumbly, as though his neck is moving on his accord, and doesn't realize he's pouring coffee into the sugar bowl until he's succeeded in making a thick, unpleasant paste that resembles muddy sludge. He grimaces and dumps it into the sink.

"Hope he doesn't mind that he's not getting coffee," Dean mumbles, and finishes off the rest of his own cup with one last gulp. The roof of his mouth tingles from hot coffee, much too bitter for his liking after a still present hangover, and heaves a deep exhale.

"Are you gonna talk to him now?" Sam asks, a little impatiently.

"I'm gettin' there, Sammy, give a man a second to gather his testosterone."

"I'm hanging up."

"Fine, just, will you _get your ass home already_?" Dean orders in the most demanding big brother voice he can muster, and Sam laughs softly.

"Already am."

"What–"

The resounding beep of an ended call blares in Dean's eardrum. He frowns and tosses his phone onto the couch, still rubbing at his temples when he opens the door to his bedroom, preparing to face a man the size of a small island nation with tattoos and cowboy boots.

"You wanna explain why there's no coffee?"

_This_, Dean muses, a little dryly, _is what a heart attack feels like._

Sam's sitting on the edge of the bed, shaggy, uncultivated hair curling up at his ears and sleep-induced gravity tugging at his eyes. His smile is crooked and languid as though a yawn is threatening to pull apart his lips, matching marks of discoloration dancing over various parts of his skin when compared to Dean's body. Despite the fact that he's freshly awoken and there's still tendrils of sleep clear in his eyes, he's incredibly calm. The tranquility of his entire frame is both to the envy and fright of Dean, because if he's putting the proper variables together in his equation, the big, large man with tattoos and golden teeth is actually Sam Winchester.

"You're here." He states dumbly. Sam nods.

"Seems like it."

"Yeah, I just – um. You. Are you my big man with tattoos?" Dean asks. There's little feeling left in his toes. He feels like all he can do is waver uncertainly on the spot, not even turn on his heel fast enough to burn rubber and back out as swiftly as possible, let alone approach Sam and politely tell him that his pranks are as dry as the Sahara and he needs to work on his hilarity or girls will never laugh at his jokes.

"I don't think so."

Dean almost wishes it would have been a stranger with distorted facial features or a man with incurable STDs that would make Dean have to lotion up his lower half with sticky cream the shade of polluted swamps that cleans out John's credit cards, frauds or not. And Sam still doesn't seem to be too concerned by the whole situation. Dean is a little horrified. When he thinks of it rationally, this is the worst possible outcome. _Underage homosexual incest_ seems like a nice thing to engrave in his gravestone. He imagines his brother laughing his ass off at the sight of it, painting a flamboyant rainbow by his name, and his dad kicking it in disappointment. He loses some of the color in his face, resembling a snowman's hue.

"L-look, we were drunk. We can still forget about–"

"I wasn't."

Dean blinks, "You remember it?"

"I wasn't the one freaking out about a girl in my bed. Yeah, I do." Sam is _still_ freakishly calm. Dean wishes he wouldn't be. Then both of them could have a mutual panic attack, vow to never drink again and vow to never let the other consume alcohol, and then drink some tea and nap it off. All of this lack of worry is making Dean worry more than it should.

"Um. So we... _really_?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

In all candor, despite himself, Dean wants to ask questions. How is it to be with a man, who was on top, did stubble get in the way, who yielded first, did Sam seriously have that kind of mouth on him to leave those bruises all over Dean's flesh, did he enjoy it, did Sam enjoy it, why did he even let it happen if he wasn't drunk, what exactly did they even do with each other's dicks –

"Dude, you weren't drunk."

"Uh huh?"

"You still let me have sex with you, man." Dean's trying the gentle, tranquil method at approaching the situation. Sam seems to pull it off. Dean's starting to wonder if his brother is still half asleep and not entirely coherent enough to have a lucid conversation concerning last night's incest as the reason for his serenity.

"Uh huh?" Sam parrots, and Dean realizes it's a question, as though the answer is obvious. Dean finds it strange. His brother is smart, very smart, but apparently his moral compass is swinging in all sorts of directions, none of them being correct. Dean is tempted to shove a few family trees under Sam's nose and point at the lines connecting them. Blood lines. Lines that have, scarily enough, been blurred and bled into each other.

"Dude, that's–"

"Absolutely nothing," Sam says resolutely, "it's a hook-up. We're not going to have commitment ceremonies in Taiwan."

"Thailand, I think is what I said."

"You'd rather have commitment ceremonies in Thailand?"

"Um, no."

"Yeah, so," Sam scrubs at the back of his neck and addresses the wall, as though the peeling wallpaper adorned with tacky roses with curling stems is more interesting than the task at hand: underage homosexual incest. Dean still can't wrap his mind around it. He tries not to think too hard, considering wrapping his mind around anything that isn't monosyllabic often proves to be difficult if he's looking for a permanent solution, "It's forgotten, all right?"

"Wait, what? You can't decide that." Dean argues.

Sam raises an eyebrow, as though he finds it unorthodox that Dean wants to dwell on such a topic, earning nothing but a noncommittal shrug from his brother as a response, "I'm the one who remembers what happened, so I get to decide."

Dean lets loose a snort, "What, was I bad in bed?"

Sam scowls and remains silent, shifting on the bed. It's at that point when Dean realizes that Sam's thighs, naked and not hidden by the sheets, aren't harboring any boxers. Dean swallows around a lump of consternation forming in his esophagus. His eyes rake over the sheets, falling upon lumps of cotton, Sam's limbs poking out from under the covers here and there. It looks like any other morning after he's encountered, except that there isn't a girl with her chest hanging out of her bra and the stench of cheap perfume on the bed.

"Look, you don't want to do it again, so we just won't mention it."

"Just tell me what happened," Dean insists, "I must've been really wasted to have slept with a dude."

Sam seems unconvinced, but through a slightly exasperated exhale, divulges anyway, "You kissed me and then–"

"I kissed _you_?"

"Yeah," Sam confirms, and rubs thoughtfully at the nape of his neck down to his shoulder to recall the rest, "You had just come home from the bar and you were like a walking bottle of tequila and I guess you weren't thinking. You asked me to follow you to your room and then, I dunno. We were making out."

"Making out doesn't always lead to sex, Sammy," Dean points out, determined to shove some of the blame on Sam, and watches the first few dots of sheepish crimson form on Sam's cheekbones.

"I'd like to see you try! Next thing I knew our shirts were off and you had your hands in my pants and then there was a blow-job and then–"

"_Blow-jobs_?"

"Yeah. Sorry if that's not in your heterosexual dictionary."

There's a hint of hurt in Sam's voice, and Dean can't tell if it's his brother speaking or his one night stand. Maybe both. The thought of both titles intermingling makes his already battered brain hurt. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and the headache reaches epic proportions. He groans.

"Well, fuck."

"Yeah, we did that too."

Dean looks at Sam. Sam looks back. He weighs his current options of choice, whether they be declaring all of Sam's statements lies and slander before getting himself inebriated once again – because even though he's wary of alcohol at the moment, he hopes that perhaps a woman will pick him up before Sam does this time – or feigning a cool, collected front that he's good at portraying at school to emit an aura of fortitude. He's sure there's other options, but his brain is still swimming with the leftovers of last night's beers and other chunks of questionable objects that may or may not have been solid before they entered his body.

"Um. Are you doing all right?" Dean ventures to ask Sam, because even after sex, he still has a big brother duty.

"Sore," Sam answers, and Dean wishes he hadn't been quite so blunt, as more questions are wordlessly answered for him and images are conjured as replies. He blinks them away, "but there's no use at panicking over a mistake."

"What did it feel like?" Dean finally queries after a moment's apprehension.

"What?"

"You know. Being bottom."

"Dude, ask another guy!" His brother demands.

"He'll think I'm gay!"

"You sort of are!"

"Fucking my brother doesn't make me gay!"

"Would you prefer pedophile or incestuous as descriptions?"

"Oh, screw you, Sam."

"Already did."

The banter dies. Dean goes to connect eye contact with Sam again, try to salvage what's left of their slightly dented relationship, and only prays that they won't make package size jokes around each other now. He wonders if he should offer for Sam to shower first as a consolation for _sorry for having sex with you_ or suggest breakfast, but the words die on his tongue before he can formulate them.

When he looks at Sam's face, his eyes pointedly staring at the carpet but his facial expression unspeakably halcyon and his thoughts seemingly collected, Dean can't help but feel a small bubble of annoyance in the pit of his stomach. Sam's like a boy who lost his soul, or a man without nerve endings anywhere in his body. Emotionless in the face of Hell on earth. In their motel room. It's as if one minuscule panic attack will be the last straw for Sam's heart, and then his death will be inevitably near. Dean thinks that perhaps it's hunt after hunt building up Sam's ability to react impassively to a shock, but then again, Dean's proving his own theory wrong. Even his ankles are sweating.

The more rational Dean's trying to think, the more gravity the situation seems to gain. He stares at Sam, knitting his eyebrows together, the boy's slumped stance portraying that he's almost bored with the entire ordeal. Either years of credit card fraud and murder have finally smashed down the last few tidbits of humanity left on his ethical scale, making incest seem like a drop in the bucket, or Sam is much stupider than he looks.

It's not like Sam would simply assume that every brother and brother would do this sort of thing at one point in their liaison on a Friday night. None of this is normal. The only time that sex on the weekend is ever acceptable as routine is for married couples and old partners with matching outfits and tiny shih-tzus. Sam has yet to carry any small dogs home in the crook of his elbow, so Dean would almost dismiss the idea.

Except that Sam does seem like the shih-tzu type at times.

"Oh shit," Dean finally mutters, "You liked it, didn't you? That's why you're not freaking out."

"Hell no."

"You're lying through your teeth, Sam!"

"You would've liked it too, bastard!"

"I don't remember it!"

"Maybe you should!"

"Maybe you're right!"

There's too many explanation points lingering in the air for any of their next moves to be timed or coordinated well at all. Dean's hand is gripping onto Sam's elbow in an impatient tug and Sam's palm is brushing against Dean's chin, uncertainty translating through the tender brush of his fingertips. It's far from planned, it's far from ideal, and it certainly isn't very impressive. But Dean's already spent all of his life courting Sam, taking care of him like a babysitter that was never dismissed, so taking this step almost feels easy, a seamless transition from then to now.

Still, Sam's thumb brushing under his ear is cautious, like he's treading on dangerous grounds, waiting for a bomb to go off. Dean knows that if he wants, he can bat Sam's hand away and explode, ensuring that Sam never touches him again, but despite the fact that his memory's failing him, he's slept with Sam. He can manage swapping saliva.

"Should I–"

"Show me," Dean growls, and he's even surprising himself by the husk in his voice, as though he's lacking the satisfaction that Sam's lips on his will quench. He slides his hand up from Sam's elbow to the nape of his neck, his thumb toying with the fine hairs gathering there before he pulls him in and presses their lips together.

He had almost expected that the buffer that alcohol provided the night before along with the shadows and the dark to be the reason he found comfort in Sam, and now that both of them are sober and clear-headed and are left to nothing but their lips and the lack of air separating them, he suspects that genetics will do its job and repel them apart. When at first contact, they don't, Sam instead making a soft, pleased sound against his lips, Dean starts questioning his own judgment.

It's not like with every press against Sam's lips he feels his brother's DNA go straight into his mouth, the words _brotherbrotherbrother_ plastered on Sam's forehead in permanent Sharpie. It's a kiss, thick with sleep and a hint of intrigue at how the other reacts to simple touches of a hand on the curve of a waist here or fingers cupping a jaw there. Neither of them are all too eager to veer this in a direction where someone's put in a position of heavy decision, whether it be to pull away or pull closer. No one yields, no one pushes, they just kiss.

It doesn't take much for Dean to remember, however, that this is a perfectly good waste of a lack of clothes.

Sam goes to pull back to breathe, breath hot and short gusting over Dean's lips, but he reels him back in, "You have a nose so you can breathe through that fuckin' thing, Sammy."

And so he does.

Sundry parts of their bodies keep bumping, whether it be their chests or their arms or their knees, but every time it happens, Sam lets out a low whine of appreciation that makes all of Dean's blood go on a trek that ends straight south. He presses their hips together more firmly, delighting in the fact that he's not the only one reacting to the steadily increasing touches, and promptly swallows Sam's moan in his mouth.

When he thinks about it, none of this is right. Then again, he didn't exactly expect it to feel wrong. Sam isn't kissing him like he's kissing a brother, he's kissing him exactly how he might wake up a sleeping lover still exhausted from the night prior. It's languid and slow, still holding the unspoken words brimming with the promise of more than just tongues pressing against each other. Dean hums lowly in his throat, Sam's tongue licking out the taste of burnt coffee from his mouth as though he's keen on sucking all of the taste buds out of him.

Now that they're slowly developing a rhythm between the rubbing of their hips and Sam isn't even stopping to breathe in between all of the quiet moans he's emitting into Dean's mouth, Dean wonders what horrifying thing it was that he expected to happen between him and his brother. Angry, anti-incest toothpicks to pierce his skin, neon warning lights to go off at epilepsy-inducing flashes in his brain telling him to back away, or to swipe his tongue over Sam's lower lip and instantly feel the impulse to hurl up the taste. It's almost as if after seventeen years of living in each other's pocket, living in each other's pants shouldn't be that much of a leap. They can stand sharing a bathroom, they make each other breakfast, and they wake up in the same bed with their clothes nowhere to be found. They're practically already married. They're just missing the shih-tzus.

The image of a small, boisterously loud puppy flies by Dean's mind, but promptly is pushed the back of his thoughts when Sam finally dares for his fingers to stroke up his erection. Any thoughts of puppies or other furry animals is replaced by Sam's hand, slow and steady, tentative but firm, and it's all Dean can do not to push him against the bed.

Needless to say, the prospect is irresistible, and with one gentle push, Sam is on his back, flushed and panting up against a shrine of pillows and disheveled blankets.

This is the most irrational thing Dean has ever agreed to do around Sam. Sam is the one responsible thing in his life, the one thing where maturity is a must and slacking off isn't an option, no matter how late or how early it is in the day. It's the one thing where he needs to stay lucid, needs to put his foot down if things get out of control, and at the current moment, the last thing he's representing is the art of being in control as he lets out a raspy, R-rated moan. Sam takes this as encouragement, the hand on Dean's length still stroking at a teasingly slow speed, lips murmuring words of ardency into his neck and brushing against his pulse point with every breath. Dean doesn't even bother to suppress his shudder.

His hand finds Sam's length in response, thumbing over the head until Sam is whimpering dirty nothings into his ear in a voice that shouldn't be legal and aiding in the build-up of sweat on Dean's brow.

"God, you're hot like this," Sam whispers and grips him more firmly, and Dean utters a garbled groan in reply.

"Mm, remember this," Dean manages, squeezing Sam's erection and pressing a messy, wet kiss to the corner of his mouth. Sam's bruised lips instantly part at the brief kiss, letting loose a breathy pant and instantly arching up to catch Dean's mouth again, "you all flustered and panting b-beneath me, god. You liked it when I bit, didn't you?"

Dean bites at the crook of his neck, a soft red mark appearing. Dean licks over it and savors the tremble that courses through Sam's entire body, even his erection twitching in Dean's grasp.

"J-jesus, yeah."

Even through the vortex of moans and rutting against each other, Dean feels a little bit like he's in the middle of an intense Lifetime Movie, and any second the overhead lights are going to ignite and the cameramen will appear.

He's got his hand on Sam's dick, and Sam's is on his, and he's feeling all right.

Dean leans up to kiss him soundly once more, tugging his bottom lip into his mouth with his teeth before sliding down his neck to plant lingering, suckling kisses at his chest. Sam moans, his fingers tight on his brother's hipbone, digging crescents into his skin with his fingernails. Dean ignores the sting, slipping the hand still steadily pumping Sam's erection to linger by his entrance instead, pressing a soft, questing fingertip against it.

Sam rewards him with a buck of his hips, eyes fluttering to a close and lips letting loose another groan. Dean isn't sure what he would do if their father would announce his arrival right now. Barricading the front door seems like the smartest option when his eyes rake over the sight before him, Sam, writhing in nothing but obvious want and trust and desire for sex, pressing into the fingertip still loitering by his entrance. He rubs a slow circle around it, grinning in satisfaction when Sam's patience wears thinner, puling impatiently and gripping Dean's erection harder in his grasp.

It's enough incentive for Dean, and pressing a short kiss under his jawline, he pushes in a single finger, probing and curious. Sam's breath hitches at the intrusion, muscles clenching, and Dean's entranced by the heat of his body. All of Sam is warm, welcoming and hot, like a warm cup of hot chocolate during Christmastime. Their tongues tangle, a sweaty mess of bumping mouths, and turning back doesn't seem to be an option anymore.

"'S familiar," Dean grunts out, sliding his finger in deeper and kissing away the wince on Sam's face, "gods, touch me, Sam. Wanna feel your hands."

Sam obliges with the speed as if he's being held at gunpoint, hands roaming over his chest like it's undiscovered territory, pinching a nipple and resuming their earlier task of stroking his leaking erection. Dean grinds into his palm, still managing to maintain a rhythm with the finger curling inside Sam. Both of them are moaning breathlessly, like promises that the words their lack of breath can't form, filled with _please want this too_s and _is this okay?_s. Dean slips in another finger, scissoring slowly, his lips still kissing trails up Sam's jaw. Sam responds to it all, hips jerking and lips groaning.

"God, Dean–"

He doesn't feel like he's getting jerked off by his brother anymore, he's getting touched by _Sam_. The same guy he saw last night, no matter how intoxicated his state was, the same guy that's moaning his name and egging on his probing fingers. Dean hooks his fingers, earning a heated moan from Sam's lips and an arch of his hips.

"Wanna make you moan so much, Sammy," Dean confesses, tugging his earlobe into his mouth while his fingers keep up their rhythm.

"Please please please, Dean–" Dean doesn't know what he's begging for, and doubt Sam does either, but a second later Sam's crying out as softly as he can manage for fear of alerting the neighbors and getting a call chastising them for excessive noise, tongue biting a red line into his lower lip. Dean's hand joins Sam on his erection, stroking him to completion as he leans in to kiss away the remainders of Sam's breath.

When they finally pull apart, it's sticky. There's a myriad of bodily fluids keeping them pushed together like adhesive, and neither of them pull back until they're both sated with their slow, far from rushed kiss.

"I'm guessing you remember what happened?" Sam ventures once he's regained the ability to speak, his voice mildly croaky. Dean laughs and presses another chaste kiss to the red mark he had made from the night before, unable to resist sucking softly, hoping to deepen the shade of red on the other boy's jaw. Sam squirms and lets out another shudder before pulling on Dean's chin.

"Hey, you all right?"

Dean looks at him, eyes dilated and lips curled in an unmistakable post-sex smile. The room smells of afternoon sex and cold coffee, the odor of femininity not to be found in a single corner. Dean chuckles, low and throaty.

"Weird as hell, man. But yeah, I'm all right."

They lie there in sticky contentment, Dean still draped over Sam's boneless body, Sam's lips still pressing faint kisses at his neck. He expects their bones to push together awkwardly, their position cumbersome, but he's fine just leaning on Sam like he's his new mattress, arms furled loosely around his waist. It's comfortable. It's _Sammy_.

"So. When's the commitment ceremony in Thailand?" Sam mutters through a badly suppressed snort, and gets an elbow in the ribs as a reward.

"No Ugandan babies for you, dickmunch."

"Fuck you."

"Again?"

_A/N: _OOC OOC OOC OOC OOC OOC OOC OOC OOC OOC OOC

Whatever. I believe that sex is the only time during fanfiction when being OOC is a necessity. But think of their characterizations as you will.

Sam and Dean would have sexy Ugandan babies.

Enjoy, everyone. 3


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